To My Sister, On Her Birthday by Oliver Brooks

To My Sister, On Her Birthday

by Oliver Brooks

I made you earrings carved from my own finger bones. Wear them for me; wherever you look, I will be pointing the way. See over there? That is the tree we planted the morning of your birth, placenta buried under its roots—bits of Mom, bits of you. And there is the creek where we baptized you. (Tadpoles got in your mouth.) During the dry season, promise me you won’t forget where it wanders between the cypress knees.

Here is a brooch made from a wasp that once stung me on the cheek. I’m convinced it meant to kiss me instead but was disoriented by a breeze. Pin it to your lapel so when you walk into a room, the first thing that enters will be a specimen of something that will never hurt again, with you following suit.

My last gift is wrapped in golden tulle. But first, tell me, young aesthete, what do you see when you find, on some shelf, a ship in a bottle? Me, I first see the cork plugging the mouth of a sea, so here is a drawstring bag of cork seeds I gathered myself, dredged from round fruits with my eight remaining fingers. If we each swallow one, we will know what it is to contain multitudes. But first, please confess, sister, what multitudes do you already harbor?